


work in progress.

by mihkrokosmos



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Trans Male Character, and really this is just about growing up and coping, and this fic is about realising what that means for him, background hyunsung if u rly squint or if u read it like that, but not rly, deadnaming, implied racism, mentions of minsung, minho is trans, seriously do not bind with bandages, this is really minho centric, this isn't a romance fic, unsafe binding, uranium angst (heaviest element), vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 07:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihkrokosmos/pseuds/mihkrokosmos
Summary: minho knows how to make friends. he knows how to prod at the boundaries just enough to establish himself without causing discomfort or fuss. he’s loud, or so he’s been told, a little bit obnoxious and a little bit brash. bold and brazen.that’s not who he is. not in his mind.





	work in progress.

**Author's Note:**

> i completely understand if this isn't your cup of tea, but it's something i needed to get out of my system. also there r more 'that's okay' references than i expected lmao also i maybe referenced one of my minsung fics??? wack

minho knows how to make friends. he knows how to prod at the boundaries just enough to establish himself without causing discomfort or fuss. he’s loud, or so he’s been told, a little bit obnoxious and a little bit brash. bold and brazen, like crimson oils against a stark, white canvas. he doesn’t mind people commenting on his quintessential _ openness _. not really.

except, well, that’s not who he is. not in his mind.

the real minho stands in front of a mirror for hours on end, stripped bare and freezing. there is nothing distinguishable about him. he’s a little skinnier than he should be, dancer’s muscle pushing up against delicate skin. his hair, brown and kitchen-scissor-choppy, flops lazily against his forehead. his eyes are tired. so, _ no _ , nothing about minho’s appearance is important, memorable, which is why his personality must be. nobody _ wants _ to be friends with the kid who wraps bandages around his chest like they’ll stop his heart escaping his ribcage. minho speaks a language which paints an image of sports bras which are too small, of hearing _ ma’am _ instead of _ sir _ , of people talking too loudly like they think you can’t hear because _ you don’t exist _.

it’s no surprise that the people around minho do not actively seek his company, really, so he must take the initiative. there’s no room for shyness when just the _ looks _ you’re given speak volumes. already, he’s one of the only asian kids in the area. he can’t be asian _ and _ queer. that’s not how this works. if he is given freedom in one aspect, he must shutter away the other. leave it to die. the people around him welcome him with slurs and raised fists. he cannot add fuel to the fire.

but, minho is an oil spill. one spark would set him ablaze, burning him down to mere ashes of what he had been, what he could be. 

the word _ trans _ is caustic. it burns through his mouth, crawling down his throat and leaving the taste of acid in its wake.

  


he doesn’t tell his mother; he’s put her through enough as it is. he can see that she knows _ something _ , it leaks through the cracks in a stone facade. minho knows what it is. it’s disappointment. shame. rejection. he doesn’t have to be a genius to know what she means when she sighs, “ _ minhee _. enough” in that tired, tired voice of hers.

their communication stopped sometime between minho’s first… experiment and his butchered attempt at coming out. the only words they speak rehash the same old debate. you can’t fight fire with fire. neither of them had ever been good at backing down. minho gets his stubbornness from her, after all. they share many things: temper, nervous habits, _ looks _. even so, they don’t share opinions.

that’s what makes all the difference.

“night,” he calls, when he remembers that she should be home from work. doesn’t mean much, because his only response is silence. only the sound of the fridge closing alerts him to her presence. he doesn’t try again, there’s no point.

(he misses her, sometimes).

  


the laptop keys burn beneath his fingertips, nails scratching against the thin plastic. it’s one of those nights when he’ll do anything to distract himself. the skin underneath his thin shirt is aflame, sting warmer than the tiles his agile fingers fly against. nothing makes sense; his owl existence seems to be a clusterfuck of anomalies and paradoxes and _ impossibles _ mixed with _ constants _ and it’s… madness. he doesn’t _ understand _.

on the other side of the screen, somewhere far away in a place where the sun is still shining and the climate isn’t just rain, someone understands.

minho’s heart aches. he knows their heart does too.

he’s not stupid. this will never be more than a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear as long as he listens in return, but it’s nice, because minho knows how to make friends, but being able to keep them is so much sweeter. even so, he’s aware of when it’s time to pull back, to remind himself that some things need to _stay_ _as_ _dreams_. he’s allowed this momentary lapse, a second of relief, before he forcibly hauls himself back to reality.

he knows, over in malaysia, jisung gets it.

every so often, they’ll dream together. talk about university and future jobs and what they would name their pets. it ends in a ‘that’d be so cool’ and a ‘goodnight’ and they don’t push it. life isn’t easy for either of them. clinging to something unattainable just makes it so much worse. in another life, minho can see himself falling for jisung. maybe in a town that thinks differently, with parents who care and a room bathed in sunlight instead of the stench of crippling paranoia and self-doubt.

_ goodnight sungie _, minho types.

_ night, minho!!!, _jisung replies.

a smile ghosts across his lips. jisung won’t fix his problems, can’t heal him, can’t mend the shattered parts of him. all he can do is make him smile, but it’s okay. minho dreams of meeting jisung underneath the stars, of falling in love with city lights and small apartments, of bomber jackets and kisses beside fairylights. they’re only dreams, they’ll only ever be dreams.

_ that’s okay. _

the word _ trans _still carves trenches into his throat, refuses to budge, but minho can no longer taste the blood across his tongue. another development which isn’t perfect, isn’t ideal, but it’s a development.

  


people come and people go. things happen, circumstances get in the way. nobody asks questions when minho deletes his twitter. he never expected them to, anyway. it’s better this way, he reckons, because there are things he needs to sort through and decisions he needs to make. it’s not just twitter he gets rid of. everything he could be contacted on just… vanishes.

so, maybe it was less about people not being curious and more about them not having an outlet for their curiosity.

it’s not like there’s anyone who knows him well enough to ask him about his whereabouts. jisung has been online less and less. he met a boy, if minho recalls correctly, called hyunjin. he hopes jisung took his advice and asked him out like he said he wanted to. jisung deserved to have something good happen.

one more year. one more year and he’s _ gone _ . he’ll be at a university where nobody knows anyone called _ lee minhee _ and nobody knows about the old bandages hidden under his mattress and the scars across his body and the way it took months for his body to recover from improper binding (though they might ask about his breathing issues). 

it’s this hope which keeps him going, which tunes out his mother’s iciness and the mockery from his classmates. minho’s existence angers more people than he cares to interact with… like everything else in his life, it’s okay. he can cope. he’s managed this far and he will manage for quite a bit longer. he refuses to function entirely on dreams and wishes which will never be fulfilled, but this… this is enough. he tells himself that he’s allowed to have faith in this one thing, because he can follow through on it. 

the word _ trans _ will never sit comfortably on minho’s tongue. he’s realised that it’s not really _ supposed _ to. you cannot whisper a warcry. there are people who will care and people who won’t. when minho breathes out a shaky “this is okay” into the night air, he begins to believe it. there are scars on his skin that glow against the cool glow of streetlights, worries etched into his head which have never been given a voice.

minho has very little, but he has time. time to recover from all that he is and all that he has experienced.

  
it’s alright. _ it’s alright _.

**Author's Note:**

> twt: gayleeknow  
stay safe, lovelies. you'll get through this!


End file.
